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I know we're well past the Fourth of July. Most of us have already shifted gears into back-to-school shopping, thinking about the Canfield Fair and making plans for Labor Day weekend.
Yet here I am writing about something that feels like it happened eons ago.
Maybe that's exactly why.
Some moments deserve to be revisited because what matters never truly disappears. It simply changes form. Kind of like rain. Water evaporates after a storm, rises into the clouds and eventually finds its way back to the earth. It never really leaves. It just continues the cycle, reminding us that even what we can no longer see is still part of something bigger.
Memories work the same way.
Last year, I spent the Fourth of July overseas in Poland, teaching leadership and entrepreneurship to women who dreamed of owning businesses or were already building them. It was one of the greatest experiences of my life. I fell in love with the people, the conversations and the opportunity to share what I've learned.
But I also missed one of my favorite holidays with my family.
Since then, life has become even more colorful than it already was. Recent health challenges have a funny way of changing your perspective. They don't just remind you that life is fragile. They remind you that ordinary moments aren't ordinary at all.
So this year I wanted the Fourth of July to be perfect. Isn't it funny how that's usually where things begin to unravel?
The morning started with one of those classic husband-and-wife disagreements where nobody is really right, nobody is really wrong, and neither of you realizes that until you've had enough space to breathe. Add in two teenage boys who weren't interested in my carefully planned itinerary, and let's just say my vision for the day wasn't exactly winning any votes.
Once my husband and I made up, he suggested a different plan.
Honestly, on paper it looked like a great idea. The hypothesis was solid. The experiment? Not so much.
Apparently, a surprising number of restaurants close on the Fourth of July. Who knew? Add in less-than-cooperative weather, and many of the outdoor activities we'd planned turned out to be disappointing.
Strike one.
Strike two.
Strike three.
Eventually we found ourselves back at home.
We decided we'd at least watch a movie together before the boys headed off to spend the evening with their friends while my husband and I met up with ours.
I'm not going to tell you the title of the movie because, quite frankly, it was terrible. And definitely not family friendly.
Another swing. Another miss.
By this point I had pretty much declared the holiday a bust.
Later that evening, after everyone had gone their separate ways, my husband and I wandered back home just in time for the fireworks.
I'll be honest -- I wasn't sure I was going to stay awake.
We unfolded our lawn chairs in the driveway. My husband sat beside me. The neighborhood grew quiet.
Then the first firework exploded across the sky.
At that exact moment, tears filled my eyes.
I wasn't crying because I was sad. I wasn't crying because the day had been difficult. I was crying because I realized how incredibly lucky I was.
There I was, holding my husband's hand. Watching colors dance across the sky after what might qualify as the least successful Fourth of July we've ever attempted.
And somehow it was perfect.
Not because everything went according to plan. Because it didn't. Not because every activity worked out. Because most of them didn't. It was perfect because we were together.
The arguments had passed. The failed plans became stories we'd laugh about later. Our boys were making memories with their friends, exactly as they should at this stage of life. And I was sitting beside the man I've built this wonderfully imperfect life with, realizing that this -- this ordinary, messy, beautiful moment -- was enough.
More than enough.
Sometimes we chase perfect days when what we're really looking for are perfect moments.
Those moments rarely announce themselves.
They often arrive disguised as failed plans, bad movies, empty restaurant parking lots and folding chairs in a driveway.
Mother, author, entrepreneur and founder of Dandelion-Inc, Lisa Resnick wants to hear your story. Share memories with her by emailing lisa@dandelion-inc.com.